


The Simple Gesture

by Kay (sincere)



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgardian Angst, F/M, Fluff, Manly Cooking, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincere/pseuds/Kay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor decides to show Sif that his time in Midgard has been rewarding: by showing her what he has learned, like cooking, and common kindness. But she never had any doubt that he found it rewarding. What she doubted was that he enjoyed being home again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Simple Gesture

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm writing Thor/Sif for pretty much only me because there are so few fans of it. But I love this ship and writing for it makes me happy. I will singlehandedly populate AO3 with Thor/Sif fics! Even if... somehow they all turn out to be full of UST and angst. This was supposed to be a fluffy fic.
> 
> Written for a prompt at fic_promptly on Dreamwidth: "any fandom, full belly and warm heart", as part of my NaNo fic binge.

The morning had slipped away from them entirely before Thor gave up on his quest to go through the reports and accounts littering the table, ducking his head and rubbing his temples with a low sigh. Sif paused, looking at him. The Warriors Three had long ago had somewhere else their presence was required -- or composed an excuse for their absence here -- but she had persisted stubbornly, unwilling to give in before Thor did. Paperwork was not his specialty, and she was confident she could outlast him.

He said, "All of this is my fault."

She shook her head, immediately. "You did _none_ of this, and you have done everything in your power to stop it."

Thor held up a sheaf of papers. "If it were not for my arrival on Earth, none of this would have happened."

"The man who told you that was desperate to take the blame from his own shoulders," Sif said, her voice flat. She had heard the story, and she had not been impressed with this Fury's crafty and underhanded management of the situation, even if Thor swore by his conviction and nobility.

"Some of it is not a matter of semantics," Thor countered, flipping through the pages.

Sif looked over the table. "The Midgardians certainly do like their paper," she murmured. She had never seen so much in her life, and they had sent it with Thor almost casually during his last visit. It had not even been an announced visit.

He found the page he was looking for, and held it up. "Confirmed sighting of Loki, during an attack on the Sydney Opera House. The Avengers were not able to arrive in time to prevent the damage, totaling an estimated... fifteen... million USD."

"What is USD?" Sif asked.

Thor tossed the papers over his shoulder. "I do not know! Nor does it matter. All that matters is that if it had not been for me -- Loki would not be taking his wrath out upon these people."

Any argument with that would be only platitudes and semantics. Sif let her fingers slip over the sleek marble surface of the immaculate table. "I begin to think nothing has come of your banishment to Midgard but anguish and suffering," she said.

Thor looked up at her, frowning, and she thought that he might take her to task. It was certainly obvious that he cared greatly for the mortals there, and she imagined that he did not agree with her about the deep wellspring of trouble he had unwillingly stumbled across, dark cloud without silver lining. He would have said that there were many boons to even out the ills. If he had the opportunity to change the past so that he never went to Midgard -- to undo all the trials that had resulted from it -- would he do it, or would he choose meeting his precious Jane and how she had changed him for the better; would he choose joining the Avengers and forming bonds so close and so dear to him that lately Sif had begun to feel (deep in her heart, and with a sickening sense of resignation) that he would rather be with those friends than his old familiar companions from Asgard? If he did it, would it be solely out of guilt? Would he regret it for the rest of his life, a heavy sadness weighing on him for eons?

These were the questions that kept Sif up late nights, staring into the darkness while she wondered if she had been, finally, left behind.

But Thor did not say anything of the sort. Instead, he pushed himself very abruptly away from the table, and it seemed almost as if he would simply excuse himself, leaving Sif to sit alone and curse her honesty.

He smiled at her. "Come," he said, beckoning. "I want to show you something."

Sif lifted her eyebrows to her hairline, but she got obligingly to her feet even so. "What madness has seized you?" she asked. "There is yet work to be done."

Thor chuckled. "Time enough for this later. I just remembered something. You will like it, trust me!"

"Kind of you to decide that for me, so I will not have to waste precious thought of my own on the matter," she said dryly, rolling her eyes.

Thor grinned and led her away from the sunlit balconies and vast windows of the outer ring of the palace, bringing her into its depths, narrow passages lit by softly glowing lamps where only servants usually tread. Thor's presence startled those they encountered, their eyes widening to the size of saucers as they scurried out of his way so as not to accidentally brush him as he passed. He was always big, but he seemed vast in the cramped halls.

Sif felt vaguely bad for them, and she said, "Sorry about him," as they continued past.

She had grown up on the castle grounds and knew every inch of them, even the twisty, secret passages not meant for the sight of nobles. So she had no one but herself to blame for noticing that they were headed to the kitchens, thinking, _No; why would he be going to the kitchens?_ , and then being surprised when they ended up in the kitchens.

"Did you just discover these?" she inquired archly, covering for her foolish surprise with mockery. "Yes, I knew about them. As it turns out, even in Asgard food does not simply appear from the ether, ready for your consumption. There must be a place where it can be collected and prepared."

He threw back his head and laughed, a hearty sound, loud and unabashed. What few workers had not been stopped merely by the sight of the crown prince come to the dank kitchen found the laugh impossible to ignore, and one and all stared at him with varying degrees of uncertainty and confusion.

"Your words cut like knives," Thor told her fondly, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Sit down. I will need your patience, not your barbs, for a time."

Sif put her hands on her hips. "Are you serious?"

"Do I seem to be joking?" he returned. He was laughing as he said it. She only pointed at his face with her sternest expression, although it was difficult to keep a smile from tugging at her own lips. His happiness was... contagious. Thor cleared his throat and wiped his face mostly clean, resorting instead to earnestness. "I want to cook for you!"

It was the same assumption she had already formed, but it was still nothing short of unbelievable. For a moment Sif just stood there, her mouth opening, and then a beat passing, and then shutting. Finally she said, "I will be patient. Because _this_ I must see."

Thor laughed again before stepping to the nearest tall stool and pulling it out for her, gesturing for her to be seated in full courtly fashion, as if they were enjoying a grand banquet together instead of Thor working and Sif watching in the hot, poorly-lit kitchen. Sif took the seat, leaning an elbow on the countertop and keeping an eye on him as he stepped around again, approaching the head chef.

"Excuse our intrusion... Ortwin, wasn't it? Is there some stovetop where I may work, and materials you have to spare? I know this is a strange request, but if it does not present much difficulty..."

He was, in fact, perfectly serious about this, Sif realized as he happily took orders from a visibly unsettled Ortwin. She turned and gestured to a young woman determinedly trying to ignore the stray prince in favor of making vegetables.

"When you're done there, can I trouble you to get me a flagon of mead?" Sif murmured to her, with a rueful smile and a tilt of her head at Thor.

Thor was not a terrible cook. She knew better than to think he could not feed himself if it became necessary. Unlike some royalty, Thor had not lived a life of pampered luxury: he had spent centuries traveling and adventuring, and during his excursions, he had taken his turn at chores the way they all had. If Loki had had his way when he first joined them, the princes would have expected their rank to make chores unnecessary, but Thor had cheerfully wrestled him into doing his share, and thereafter all the chores had been split equally. Sometimes Volstagg set up camp; sometimes Hogun washed their clothes; sometimes Loki hunted for their dinner; sometimes Sif cared for the horses; sometimes Fandral fetched water; and sometimes Thor cooked. Then, the next time, another person would switch to that chore. They took turns at everything.

But they _were_ chores. Thor had never had the skill to make even the inedible into something edible, the way Volstagg could salvage even Hogun's worst disasters at cooking. He had never displayed special interest nor aptitude for any particular task, the way Fandral had a gift for hunting game. Thor could make a few simple dishes, well enough to keep them going on the road. Once they were within the miles of civilized territory, however, his efforts in that area came to an end, and he was only too happy to have others prepare and bring his meals.

So it was truly bizarre to sit at the island countertop, draining her mead while she watched Thor's back for over an hour as he cooked food, apparently contentedly, surrounded by men and women who were literally paid to do that for him, and in fact clearly thought him mad for doing it himself.

And he did it voluntarily. For her.

Sif was well on her way to pleasantly intoxicated by the time Thor brought her the plate, holding a second one for himself.

"Let us go outside," he said. "And get out from underfoot."

"Yes, let's," she agreed, shoving herself upright.

It was easier to get back out from the depths of the castle than it had taken to get there. In hardly any time at all, they were passing through a lovely white archway and into a small garden. The air was warm and there was a crisp breeze to stir their hair. Sif closed her eyes for a heartbeat, enjoying the beauty of the day.

"So what brought all this on, anyway?" she asked him, gesturing at the plates he carried.

Thor shook his head. "Eat first," he said. "You could use something after spending the last hour in your cups."

Sif laughed, seating herself on a low stone bench. "You've no proof of that!" She had been watching him the whole time, and he had scarcely glanced her way, and when he had it had most likely been to make certain she hadn't run off from boredom.

"I have every proof," he countered, grinning. "Your footsteps have grown loud and careless, and you have a look in your eye as if you dare anyone to present you with a challenge. You have had _quite_ enough to drink for so early in the afternoon."

Against her will, she felt herself soften. He knew her so well, and he paid such close attention to her mannerisms and physical cues. Sif shook her head, straightening her shoulders, and reminded herself that there was no call to be swooning. He could do the same for Fandral and Hogun.

"Well, if I am so obvious, then let us eat so the drink works its way from my system," she pronounced. She held out one hand for a plate. "I am near to starving."

Thor handed her a plate that was hefted with generous portions of food, although not quite as generous as his own. "This is called an omelette," he explained. "It is made of egg, and inside it I have put ham, cheese, and onion." Then, pointing with his fork to the remainder of the plate, "Pancakes, sausage links, toast with jam, sugared fruit, and a dish of potato called hash browns."

Sif gazed at her laden plate, and then back up at him. "Even starving, I do not know if I can eat all of this," she warned him. The smell drifting up to her was rather enticing, though, and she found herself all the more hungry.

He lifted a piece of his toast, chuckling. "I will not hold it against you. The size of the portions is more for my own appetite than yours."

Whatever spirit was possessing him she would deal with later. For now, she sliced into the familiar pancakes, a rich golden brown and drizzled with syrup, and brought it to her mouth. The taste was intimately familiar, and -- though it could not quite compare to what Ortwin might have served up -- it far surpassed her meager expectations. Something mealy or undercooked, perhaps. Edible more than enjoyable. But this was rich and warm and fluffy.

And Thor had made it. She closed her eyes as she chewed and swallowed, and then she laughed a little, self-conscious. "It's good," she said.

"Try the omelette," he urged her, and now he was the one watching her intently. She wondered if he had been as aware of her attention as she was of his.

But that was how she ended up polishing off everything on her plate, every last bite of the much too much food that he had prepared for her. She was almost painfully full by the time she leaned back, setting the plate aside and letting out a slow breath, eyes closing.

"What do you think?" Thor's voice asked her. "A pleasant enough surprise?"

Sif felt her lips quirk up, and she said, "You were right. I will admit it. I did like it."

Although what she had liked most of all had less to do with the fact that Thor had cooked for her, and more to do with the fact that _Thor_ had _cooked_ , for _her_. It built up a warmth in her heart, making her feel flush and happy, and that ached more than the fullness of her stomach.

Thor murmured, "I enjoy cooking, I think. It is a simple thing that involves little effort, only time and following instructions. But it allows me to create something that... my friends can take pleasure in."

She opened her eyes again, turning to look at him. He was looking down at his plate, also empty. His blue gaze was on something far away, and his hair stirred about his shoulders.

"I would never have thought of doing something so humble before I went to Midgard," he said. "That was where I learned that there is -- joy to be found in small things, and the way a stranger's face lights up at even everyday kindness. I had nothing else, and that was what forced me to learn."

It may have been the mead making her resent the words, but she argued with him: "Thor, you _always_ had a generous heart. You always sought to make your friends happy."

"With expensive gifts or grand gestures," he said, looking at her. "Giving Fandral the scene he wants so he may sweep a maiden off her feet, or giving Volstagg's family lavish presents when I go to see them, or -- buying you that locket when we were children."

And then she was no longer comfortable leaning back. Sif shifted upright, shoulders curling in. The gold locket felt cool enough to burn against her skin, hidden under the layers of her clothing. She wondered if he knew she wore it even now.

No, obviously, he did not. "But when I could not find something suitably overwhelming, I did -- nothing," he said, looking down. "I simply took your friendship and support and gave nothing back."

"Thor, we are your _friends_ ," she said, a little more harshly than she'd meant. It didn't sound friendly; it sounded defensive. "We do not need constant gifts, whether that be grand gestures or small ones. You owe us nothing."

Thor straightened, frowning at her; not unhappy, but confused. "But I _want_ to do more for you," he said.

"Perhaps you could start by not telling me that a friendship I valued and thoughtful acts that made me happy weren't good enough," Sif said, looking away from him, crossly. "You make it sound like you think us all fools for not abandoning you centuries ago."

After a long beat, he said, "I do not... mean to say that," his voice thickened with dismay.

She was probably hurting him, she thought, and frustration welled in her. She was no good at this -- she had never known the right things to say, and she had never known how to speak her heart instead of her mind. She couldn't find the words to say, _it kills me to hear you talk of how pathetic and unworthy you were before you went to Midgard, because it makes me feel like you would rather be there, among the people who 'fixed' you, where there are no ugly memories you feel you must make amends for_.

She had been a fool to ever bring it up. There was no winning: she could not say what she wanted to say, and he could not understand what upset her, and he could not reassure her in any way that would mean anything.

"Never mind," she said, mutedly. "I think the mead has gotten the best of me after all. I am ready to come to blows over just about anything."

Thor got to his feet, slowly, setting his plate over hers, and then held out a hand to her. Sif didn't look up at him, but she reluctantly took his hand, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

"Then let us not talk of Earth, so you do not feel the need to go on a crusade against it," he said; there was a smile in his voice, and so her own lips curved up faintly. "I learned to cook, and I thought you would enjoy the results. And you did."

"I did," she agreed.

"And you are most welcome."

Sif looked up at him then, taking in his warm smile for her, the affection in his eyes. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, and there was that warmth in her heart again.

_He kissed Jane's hand just so, and she threw herself at him and claimed a real kiss._

"I didn't say I _thanked_ you for it," she said, loftily, withdrawing her hand. "After the way you spent the morning frightening the help and avoiding your work, I suspect I should have talked you out of it before it began."

Thor laughed again, and it was like a cloud lifting from over them. This was what she was good at: ignoring the hurt, willfully replacing it with confidence and competence, until it faded from mind. "I would not have let you dissuade me," he said.

"Oh, I think you would have," she disagreed, tossing her hair back. "It is difficult to cook when you are trussed like a pig on the floor."

Another laugh, and he countered, "Also difficult to work!"

"I'll read the reports to you," she said breezily, stepping away.

"You are far too cocky, Sif. Sleep it off."

She did go back to her rooms -- she was truthfully feeling too tipsy still to return to work -- and stripped down to a simple shift before dropping down onto the bed gracelessly. The locket bounced against her collarbone and then spilled down the side of her neck.

Sif lay there for a moment, and her lips curved up. In spite of everything, her mind did not return to the miserable questions that so often preoccupied her. Perhaps it was that the light chased away those thoughts of darkness; perhaps it was that the mead had left her unable to think such complex worries; perhaps it was that even now she was full of good food, and warm with the thought of it.

But she felt happy.

That was a good start.


End file.
